Tonight,
my hands demand
that I write about you
before I start cutting
tomatoes too close
to my fingers again.
The more I write your name,
the more I forgive,
but I just don't have time
to forgive you right now.
Tonight,
I was going to write
about getting glasses,
about the way leaves
and mountains looked
afterward,
about the awe of being
able to read
street signs and billboards.
I could have written about
nighttime in Denver,
taking my glasses off for
my walk home,
so I can remember what it's like
to stumble through a blur
of lights. I wasn't even going
to mention the glances
over my shoulder, putting
my glasses back on, so
I can tell whose face
to run from. I swear
I'll never have a career
because people will think
I can only write about
you. And the fear
has gotten boring. I don't want
to be the voice of a battered
woman. I don't want
to confess:

I bought a candle that smells
like your cologne
and I've never lit it.
It's for your vigil.
It's the scent of a bluff.